Pillow Talk
by SardonicShipper
Summary: Dean and Cas talk about and have some fun with who they are and how they feel about each other. This includes trueform, talk of wings, the handprint, sex.


This is set sometime from season 6 on. Sexual content and profanity.

I own nothing of Supernatural and make no claim to do so.

**xxxx**

The once-crisp hotel bedsheets were as wrecked as Dean, twisted into knots between his calves as he bucked into the holier-than-holy body joined to him. The mattress creaked in time with his groans as he began to lose himself, nearing the third or fourth time that night, feeling 18 again. He was pretty sure Cas' angel mojo had something to do with his stamina, just as he knew that when Cas covered his mouth and nose right before he came, Dean would get an extra big jolt, because he became sheer energy and light in that moment, no need to breathe, no need to exist as anything beyond an endlessly firing cannon, a pure fuck toy for his very impure angel. Cas was always ready to go in his normal body but it took a few rounds to tap into the angel. Dean lived to tap that angel.

Dean felt a sweaty hand cover his eyes to match the nose and mouth. He greedily tasted the sweat on Cas' palm, tasting himself and his lover. He'd never even known angels could sweat until that first time he'd licked his way down Cas' body, that first time they'd torn their clothes to shreds and knocked every painting off the wall, broke a mirror, even burst a faucet (still didn't know how that happened).

Cas was close, Dean right with him. When Cas wanted to, he could milk Dean to the perfect, agonizing climax, just in time with his own. Dean's entire thought process stopped somewhere between his bruised legs, but he still saw the flashes, heard the screams. They were like whistles only certain frequencies could hear. Dean was tuned in enough to get an earful of just how hot Cas was for his dick, but not enough to pay for it with eternal deafness. He imagined some 3000 year old angel sitting in a cottage in some PBS-British estate, shattered windows, shouting "CASTIEL, YOU FUCKING PERVERT!" in Enochian.

Unable to speak, barely able to think, Dean gasped, biting the fingers now in his mouth.

_L-Love you...Cas...I love you...I...fffuu-u-CCCKKK!_

Dean began convulsing, hearing echoes of his angel chanting above him. He sensed his body being dissected atom by atom, grace and electricity coursing through him, reducing him to nothingness, slowly rebuilding, threaded back together with the feel of fingers and tongue, awareness, newness, down to his very soul. The soul Castiel had claimed in a thousand different ways. This wasn't an orgasm, this was an experience, a force.

Suddenly, he glimpsed another plane of reality, a world he had often walked in but could never truly comprehend.

An enormous being, far beyond what his vision could fully process. He felt no fear, as he sensed immediately this was his soulmate, in every sense of the word. He allowed himself to detail the glimpses of fire and ice, of white, so white, white buffeted by spiky columns of jet black, and in the middle, one stubborn shade of pure blue. The white and black constantly trading colors, the blue never moving, always watching.

They were the wall for a million mirrors, mirrors reflecting any emotion Dean had ever felt, a million destinies, different roads all leading to the same path - together. He sensed the purity of the million heartbeats pounding into one. He sensed peace, and a war cry of triumph. He heard a constant sob of regret, pain for the destruction he'd wrought on his brothers and sisters, on the Winchesters, the people of Earth, followed by a gentle humming, soothing, reminding him of Dean's forgiveness and devotion, of the resolve to be better, atone. Under the cool gaze of the blue, the black and white melted into gentle talons, running through Dean, exploring, marking, claiming him to the universe, commanding all to fear his true owner.

Before Dean could even summon a whisper of a thought, he succumbed to darkness.

**xxxx**

What seemed like an eternity later, Dean stirred, hearing a low keening, Cas watching over him, soft fingers tracing the lines of his forehead and around his eyes.

Throat dry, Dean licked his lips, turning to look at the warm body beside him. He blinked several times, reaching out to cup his Cas' chin, planting a sleepy kiss, buried his face in the stubbly crook of Cas' neck.

He traced large circles over Cas' shoulder blades, making a roadmap where his wings would be. Cas purred against him, stirring his memories of the moments, hours, whatever, before the blackout. For a long time, Dean let himself simply rest in those slender yet strong arms, still processing, still trying to know what to say.

Finally, he formed the best words he could.

"Cas...I saw you. Just for a second...right before I...supernovaed. I mean I saw some version of the...real you."

Cas suddenly tried to move away, some subconscious panic. Dean shook his head against that warm neck, holding Cas tight, gentler, smaller circles now, using his fingers to sign his awe, his need.

Cas' voice broke as he struggled to respond.

"Humans can never see me, Dean. Even a fragment of my true form will..."

Dean didn't need to be reminded of Pamela and her scorched eye sockets. He deftly avoided the topic, knowing he and Cas were already choking in guilt as it was, just hoping Bobby and Pamela hadn't been watching..and oh God, was that a boner-killer. He really had to change the subject.

"Not entirely human anymore, Cas. If I ever was. Never been too sane either."

Dean had been trying for a joke, but, story of his life, he had the opposite effect, as Cas' stunning blue eyes, flickers of his true form, welled up, unable to look at Dean.

"I'd never intended to...integrate with you this way, Dean. We've become so close, closer than I had ever dreamed possible. I have not been as cautious as I should have been."

Dean wiped the corners of those devastating eyes with his thumbs, calluses healed by the teardrops. His voice a low, loving, firm whisper.

"No shit, Cas. Haven't exactly let you be cautious. Last time you let me play with your wings, we blew out a fucking power grid. Remember? Don't think we'll be goin' back to St. Louis anytime soon."

Cas allowed himself to smile, for a moment, as more troubled thoughts began to cloud him.

"The sight must have been..."

Dean could guess some of the depressing descriptions Cas would use to finish that sentence. Truth was the sight was a little freaky - he'd always see his Cas as the compact wall of muscle and flesh next to him, with anime eyes and hair that begged to be tousled. Not as some creature he'd find when he was half-asleep flipping through the Cartoon Network at 4 in the morning. But he was as fascinated as he was confused, and he knew it wasn't like he was easy for an immortal, tight-assed (well, not so much these days...) being of perfection to fathom.

"Breathtaking. Gorgeous. I'd be lyin' if I said it wasn't a shock but it's a good kind of shock. You let me see everything. I'm so fuckin' grateful, Cas."

When Cas blushed, a slight blue and white haze flared from him as his head perched on Dean's stomach. Dean lazily petted at his temple.

After more moments of simple peace, Dean felt Cas tense in his arms again, nearly choking on his own tongue.

"S'ok, babe," he smiled, ruffling his lover's hair. "We seem to be in girl talk mode tonight. Ask me what you need to know."

More silent moments. Dean was starting to worry.

"Anything, Cas. I want you to tell me what's eatin' you. Besides me."

If that didn't get a laugh, it at least eased Cas' mind enough to finally ask.

"Dean...I have been fortunate with my vessel over these last years, but if...if I eventually had no choice but to stay in my true form, or if you...if you eventually ascend to Heaven, where you would fully see what I am...would you still want to be with me?"

Dean sucked in a sharp breath, sharp enough to where he almost inhaled the nightstand. For a split second he pined for the days when the toughest request he'd gotten was, "Please don't hit on my girlfriends." Then he remembered how miserable he'd been then.

The longer he took to answer the further Cas sank into the shadows, curling into himself, his self-loathing, his fear of rejection. Dean swore he'd die if it meant keeping Cas out of those shadows. But he wasn't going to lie, either. Never again.

"Well, I ain't setting foot in Heaven if it's still run by dicks. I just wanna be with the people I love, and you're gonna be there, up my ass, like always. Shit, Cas. I...I love you so much, and I know I don't say it near enough, but I do. I've done so many things I never thought I'd do, all cause of you. If I...if I knew I could still look out for Sammy, then yeah. I'd try my best. I love your suit - sorry, can't call it vessel, makes it sound like the Enterprise - but I know you're a lot more than just the sweetest ass I've ever fucked, tastiest lips I've ever kissed, bluest eyes I've ever swam in. Know how much you give up when you're just here beside me. I never forget it. I love all of you, Cas. Every damn bit."

There was more radio silence as Dean worried he'd said the wrong thing, as he often did. He felt Cas' tears running down his stomach, dreaded to ask what to feel now, what to say to make it right.

He got his answer when the body beside his began to glow, began to radiate gold and white, purity, contentment. He heard a simple, satisfied purr, the sound filling his chest with pride. He didn't bother to keep the dopey grin off his face as he gently tugged at Cas' sloppy brown locks.

"I gave and will always give everything I was created for to be beside you, Dean. I can't tell you how much it means to me to hear you say...I do not deserve..."

More tears. Now Dean was shedding a few himself, flushing, just a little, at the intensity of emotion between them, how hard they were working to get this right.

"Can't believe we just had a conversation about 'true form'. Sounds like one of those R-rated movies I used to sneak Sammy into. Always acted like he hated it, but always went back for more."

Cas kissed a complacent, pleased line up his chest, because if Dean didn't love him enough already, he just had to give more reasons.

"I suppose you'd rather have more conversations about my wings."

Cas husking out the word "wings" was a magic formula straight to Dean's dick. He pinched Cas' nipple, out of pure spite, at Cas knowing how to work him over with just one word. Cas somehow managed to yelp with class.

"Dude...six wings? C'mon, that was like flippin' every switch I never even knew I had. I'd probably live in those suckers if I wasn't worried about choking on the feathers. Now we just gotta get you a better title."

"I am a seraph," Cas sniffed, indignantly.

"Not to be all sacrilegious, but that just sucks. Why do you wanna sound like cough syrup?"

"I apologize, Dean, for not having as profound a species name as homosapien."

He had Dean there, even if Dean was mostly amused at hearing Cas say "homo."

"I love sparring with you, baby. Just like the first day I met you. Couldn't believe what you made me feel. Even when I shot you, and stabbed you, I was just...holy shit."

Cas allowed himself a shy smile as he kissed Dean's chest.

"Worst first date in mankind's history."

Dean laughed way too loud, as he always found himself doing when Cas tried for Winchester-style sarcasm. He felt safe and happy, a feeling he was trying not to get used to, but struggled to resist.

"I've had worse. Few years back, I'd go out for some...replenishment, and when I saw somebody I wanted to..."

"Fuck?" Cas helpfully added.

Dean growled. "Should be some commandment against that filthy mouth. Things it does to me, baby. Anyway...yeah. I'd go and then my arm would start killing me. Thought it was gonna fall off."

Cas said nothing, and he had a damn good poker face, but through their bond, Dean could feel the barely repressed, childish mirth splashing in his mind.

Dean cursed, gently elbowing his mischievous angel in the stomach, before turning his back to not make a display of the fact that he was pouting like an over the hill sitcom star.

"The goddamn - and yeah, I AM gonna take it in vain, deal with it - handprint! Was that like your angel cockblock? Did you have radar every time I got it up?"

And Cas was_ laughing - _whatever happened to the angel who just looked confused every time Dean tried a knock-knock joke? Mr. Comedy was full on wheezing now, and Dean would have been pissed if he wasn't busy thinking about how good that sound would feel vibrating against his cock.

When Cas had time to settle down again, he replied.

"My mark had glimmers of my grace."

"Very poetic," Dean grumbled.

"Shut up," Cas scolded, surprising Dean, and, to his shame, arousing him.

"My mark would, as a result, have a bad reaction to those I would have deemed unworthy of you."

Dean nodded. That was seriously fucked up, and Dean felt cheap, but in some weird way, proud, proud that Cas had even noticed how the slow grind of the bar pickups had dragged him down. He still hated it, but he knew he and Cas were both very different men, or angel-man, whatever, at that time.

"Guess I should be flattered. No wonder I felt like I had Mt. Rushmore on my arm that night with Lola. Good thing you didn't affect my dick."

Cas said nothing, which made Dean feel confident he'd won, until a strong hand clamped on his shoulder, exactly where the handprint had once been. Sparks shot through his body, making him shudder and gasp as he saw visions of Castiel's surprise and vague sense of shame when he made the mark, the gaudy handprint seen as obscene by many in Heaven, something Cas himself had never truly understood, how the Righteous Man could create so much pure, unbridled emotion in him. He saw flashes of Cas healing him after Sam jumped in the pit, healing the handprint, wanting Dean to move on, to be happy with a new life - Lisa and Ben left unspoken because Cas knew Dean carried too much guilt to think of or speak their names ever again.

Cas had been so sure Dean wanted him gone that he'd done all he could to ensure any connection between them was severed. And that whole year, Dean had been just as sure Cas had wanted nothing to do with him.

Moments like this, Dean was surprised they could even dress themselves. But he didn't want to think about that. He'd spent enough time feeling sad and stupid.

"So basically what you just told me - and give me a little warning next time please, so I can at least jerk off so that fatal heart attack will really be worth it - is that you got so excited when you saw me, you did the angel version of jizzing your pants."

Cas made an unholy sputter which made Dean want to lick him to death.

"Angels do not 'jizz their pants,' Dean. We are...or were...more pure. We could not comprehend the seductive powers of humanity."

Dean whistled. He wasn't too sure about that one. Other than Cas and a few pals, several long dead angels were the most impure sickos around. Maybe Cas was a sicko too, but that was good company for Dean. The mental image of cuddling with Zachariah was almost enough to get him back on the bottle for good.

"Don't know about that, Cas. When I used to read about gods, I had so many pictures in my head. What they looked like to humans. What we looked like to them. What they looked like to each other. Every once in a while - yeah I'm a perv - I used to wonder what it would be like to get my hands on a god, taste them, worship them, and..."

"Fuck them?" Cas throatily added.

He had to stop doing that.

A low rumble of desire settled in Dean's stomach, reassuring him that the fifth time would be one hell of a charm.

"Cas, don't do that. When you say those words..."

Dean was numbed as Cas breathed into his ear, as Cas began snaking a hand over his hip, slowly, ever-so-slowly, toward his revived erection.

"Which words?"

Dean whimpered.

"Do you want me to remind you of how you brought a _seraph_ to his knees? How, until I first laid hands on your flesh, I'd spent millenia assuming sexual intercourse was merely a way to procreate and to pass the time?"

Dean was pretty sure he was begging Cas at this point. Whether it was to stop or to never stop, he no longer knew.

"Did you feel proud, Dean, the first day I was on my knees? How many hours had you spent masturbating, knowing you'd eventually enslave me, make me worship you as my new god? Did you imagine, that first day in the warehouse, that one day you'd ejaculate on my face?"

Dean heard his own voice, sandpaper rough, because no one had ever given him a leaking pipe with a stupid word like "ejaculate". Or "seraph". Or "procreate". Usually words like...

"...ass. I love your ass. It is my Father's most perfect creation. For months, I studied the curve of your blue jeans. I despised them. I almost traveled back in time to prevent the invention of blue jeans.."

Dean sucked in a short breath under the waves of sexual energy. He went back to their first time, when Cas had torn the jeans to shreds, tiny shreds, like they'd been possessed by Lucifer. Only after several very good blowjobs had Cas repaired them. They were his favorite pair...especially after that.

Cas' turgid length was now housed between his legs at the crack of his ass, gently pushing, teasing for a future visit. Cas couldn't resist a squeeze, in time with licking and biting Dean's long, luscious neck.

Dean had already shot his wad so many times that night, he was sure this last orgasm was going to end in another coffin appointment, with Death showing up to make him feel like the dick he was. But it was worth it, every agonizing second.

"Do you want another handprint, Dean?" Cas said quizzically, the angel's voice rough and tumble, breaking in with pleading, hungry fingers leading straight to his dick.

"Um...ungh," was about the best Dean could respond, as Cas' studious, well taken care of hands encircled his waist, sliding down, down, down.

As he began to see the white and blue glow under the tormented bedsheet, feel the heat between his legs, he was terrified he'd be part of that light, slowly fade, never return, never be in touch what what his soul demanded. Yet, he remembered the sense of completeness, and surrender, in those tendrils, in knowing he had nothing to prove, that he was simply there to be loved.

Cas hissed, teeth at Dean's jawline, now fully erect, sliding back and forth and back and forth against Dean's buttocks, roughly jerking Dean off, just the way Dean liked it, twisting his nipples like he was communicating with the sky - which he probably was, for all Dean knew.

Dean felt fingers on his balls, squeezing his ass, teasing his hole, pulling at his lower lip, scraping his chest, stroking his hardness...even in his delirium he knew Cas didn't have that many fingers. This was some type of grace, and even if Dean couldn't imagine this was what their maker had envisioned, it sure felt like Heaven on Earth.

Dean cried out, throat hoarse and raw, entire body on fire while he shot his last reserves, felt like they were stripping him down to his toes. A drumbeat of "Mine, mine, mine," caressed his ear as he felt a slow pump and release of Cas' seed against his upper thighs and reddened cheeks.

Nothing more to say. No energy for even a lazy kiss. Dean was done. He knew he'd be sleeping most of the next day away.

He dreamt of a beautiful lake, just the right time of day, rod and reel in his hand, ice cold beer.

_Dream with me, Cas, _he thought, grinning with the side of his mouth, staring at the blue skies, the hint of sundown.

Cas was now there, jacket gone, shirt sleeves undone. Asking how to fish. He knew, but he never got tired of Dean teaching him.

He was happy.

They were happy.


End file.
